


These Demons Are Clever

by shadow_lover



Series: And Do Not Falter [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cum Inflation, Deception, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Lactation, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Overstimulation, Partial Mind Control, Sex Pollen, Size Kink, Tentacle Rape, Worldbuilding, anal penetration, oral penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Herald of Andraste is lost in the Fallow Mire. While searching for his companions, he stumbles into an unexpected trap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Demons Are Clever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> Happy Halloween! Hope this suits your interests :)
> 
> Post-Reveals ETA: [Here's my Lavellan tag](http://the-shadow-lover.tumblr.com/tagged/Corin-Lavellan) if anyone would like an appearance reference. Otherwise, carry on and enjoy :)

The wet, dank swamp below was nearly indistinguishable from the wet, dank sky above. If there was a good place on this gods-forsaken continent to get lost from his companions, the Fallow Mire certainly wasn’t it.

Lavellan’s long coat kept catching in the brambles. He’d been searching for his party for over an hour now and was beginning to worry. He didn’t dare call out to them, not with corpses and Avvar and gods knew what else lurking about. While he knew how to handle himself, he also knew not to be a fucking idiot.

Well, more of a fucking idiot than he’d already been today. Lavellan had only darted off the path for a split second to gather up a sprig of elfroot, but when he turned around his companions were gone. A glance down the wobbling path in either direction showed nothing, nor could he spy any footprints departing the path.

He was trying to make his way to their nearest camp, but Cassandra had the map and Lavellan had only his dreadful sense of direction. Every soggy path looked like any other soggy path wriggling through the brackish pools.

At last Lavellan found a landmark. He was in a broad, circular clearing, where he remembered closing a rift the day before. Beyond the croaking of frogs and the gentle splash of the distant undead, barely audible even to his sensitive ears, he heard the crackle of fire.

He didn’t think the Inquisition had a camp nearby, but perhaps his companions had set up a new camp to wait for him. He sidled along the stone edges of the clearing, not liking to be exposed in the center. He noted a few pockets of blue vitriol to return for once he had his crew back together.

The fire had sounded so close. Lavellan was amazed he hadn’t reached it yet. Something about the waterways made everything echo so oddly.

When he reached a breach in the wall, he slipped his daggers into his hands. A campfire did not necessarily signal safety. He slunk onward. It was hard to be stealthy when the mud sucked at his boots with every step, but there were enough soft splashes in the swamp that he didn’t think he stood out.

He waded through a thin stretch of open water, and to his surprise no corpse materialized.

He saw a yellow spark of campfire and with it heard the echo of a familiar voice. Solas, saying something low and urgent he couldn’t quite make out.

Lavellan heaved a sigh of relief. Sheathing his daggers, he steeled himself for the well-deserved jibes from Varric at getting so thoroughly lost.

A single figure stood beside the fire, swathed in shadow, and the rest sat hunched under a makeshift lean-to. Not their usual sturdy set-up, but they must not have met up with any other officers or scouts. He was almost close enough to make out their faces—Varric, asleep, and Cassandra leaning against his shoulder, and beside her—

Beside her slumped Solas. Lavellan realized with a cold thrill of fear that the upright figure was _not_ a friend.

He froze in place in the shallow water, on the edge of the firelight’s reach, but it was too late to hide.

The figure turned and offered a grotesque grin. Too many teeth, yet not enough—so sharp—Lavellan knew what possession looked like, but had never seen an abomination so precariously balanced between mage and demon. A human face, a woman, but other shapes flickered behind her skin, and her eyes—its eyes promised to devour Lavellan whole.

“I promise something else entirely,” crooned the demon, and it flicked a clawed hand in his direction.

The spell washed over him before he could reach his daggers. Warmth. A comforting magic. Lavellan’s hands fell to his sides and he stood transfixed on the cusp of something he could neither name nor understand. Temptation, perhaps, but temptation implied resistance and no part of Lavellan could resist. He could only wait, breathless and wanting.

The demon beckoned him closer and he stumbled to drier land. “Take off your coat,” it said, and what a joy it was to obey.

Eager though he was, Lavellan moved slowly to unbuckle his belts, undo his sash, and slip the leather from his shoulders. His limbs seemed caught in molasses, as muddled as his mind.

The demon had only asked for his coat, but Lavellan dropped his knives as well.

“I was so lucky to find dear Widris,” the demon murmured. The woman’s arms were bare and pieces of flesh were beginning to blacken and rot away. “She had such unique and inspirational desires.”

Lavellan shivered. The wind seemed to slither up and around his ankles, tracing along the back of his neck, tracing his arms through his thin cotton shirt.

No. That was _not_ the wind.

Even in his muddled state, he tried to whirl around and confront the new intruder, but he found himself pinioned. Wet, heavy rope tightened around his chest and arms. Craning his neck around he could only see a dark, writhing mass blending in and out of the shadows. One dark mass stretching tendrils of itself into the night.

These weren’t ropes. These were limbs, flesh and bone curling around him. The smooth, pebbled skin was a dark hue shifting from blue to gray to bruised violet under his gaze. The tentacle around his chest was thicker around than his thigh. Two more tentacles snaked up around his legs and with a jolt the monster lifted him off the ground as easily as if he were a doll. A last flicker of sanity bloomed in the back of his mind.

He shook off the complacency enough to growl, “Let me down or you’ll regret this.” Whatever _this_ was.

The demon stretched the apostate’s arms from her sides and grinned still wider.

The tentacles yanked Lavellan up and back. He knocked breathless against the solid bulk of the beast’s body. More tentacles, as thick as his arm, snaked their way along his limbs. Most were smooth all around; some had broad rows of suckers that clung to his bare skin when they found it. One tendril curled around his neck and stroked his cheek.

The spell of complacency was fast wearing off, and Lavellan’s terror grew with every passing second. What did the demon want? To kill him, to torture him, to watch him ripped limb from limb by the beast that held him? He couldn’t tell if the beast at his back was completely controlled by Widris or merely—guided. If it was created by the demon, came separately through the Fade, or was a native denizen of the mire. Surely someone would have warned him if such a thing were to be expected.

It didn’t matter, and it became more and more difficult to distract himself with wondering. The _whys_ and _hows_ mattered less and less as a new tentacle, flatter than the others, slid around his body. He could feel its serrated edges tearing haphazard holes through his clothes. Scraps of cloth falling away. Pinprick spots of blood rising from his thighs. The cuts seemed like accidents, simple carelessness, more than intentional injury.

Then the serrated tentacle hooked under his belt and began to saw.

His breath caught and he renewed his struggles. The probing seemed all over suddenly more intimate. The tentacles curled up between his legs, circling higher. One thick appendage slithered up along the cleft of his ass. As his pinioned arms were stretched out away from his body, a thin tendril fluttered against his lips.

He clenched his jaw tight. It wanted inside him. He didn’t know why. He didn’t want to know why. Every instinct screamed for him not to let it in. Even when his belt finally parted with a snap of split leather, when a second serrated tentacle and a third joined the first’s sharp caress up and down his body, he kept from screaming. All he could let himself do was whimper, terrified, behind closed teeth.

A new set of tentacles started sliding over his body. These were blunt-tipped and oozed a slippery sort of slime. The remaining rags of his clothes clung to him with the damp. More tentacles stuck to his bare flesh, held fast by rows of suckers pulling bruises into his tanned skin.

Another tentacle joined the one probing at his lips, though he tried to twist his head away.

“You’re so strong,” cooed the demon. “The Fade-kiss on your palm—sweeter by far than any elf I’ve ever tasted.”

Lavellan glared, furious—and then squeaked as a slick tentacle slid against his cock. His body was beginning to stir in response to the too tender ministrations.

“You should open your mouth,” said the demon. “Or I’ll kill one of your friends. Which should I kill first?”

Lavellan jolted in the writhing grip. He’d forgotten his captive friends. Maybe, if they woke, they could save him. But he couldn’t call out unless—

He steeled his nerves and opened his mouth to scream, but all he managed was one gargled cry before the noise was cut off by two tentacles darting into his mouth.

They tasted of swamp water, the taste and feel of them heavy on his tongue enough to make him gag. But then they began to secrete a strange liquid. Thick, smooth, and honey-sweet. Some dripped from the corners of his lips, but most he swallowed down. He had no choice—so much liquid oozed from the probing tentacles that it was either swallow or drown. The sensation, warm down his throat, was not unpleasant. Sweet hot tingling down the core of him, stirring a base hunger he never knew he had.

This was wrong, he thought. This was wrong, and he needed to escape. 

His tattered shirt fell away. Only the rags of his sleeves clung to his arms and shoulders. The tentacles rolled up and down his rib cage, seeking like hands, dipped into his navel. He twitched and bucked with the tickling.

He shuddered when the first mouth-like sucker latched itself onto his nipple. Oh, gods, that felt—a deep, steady suction pulling the sensitive nub up and up, just on the edge of pain. When he arched his torso back, trying to pull away, the sensation only intensified. He moaned when the second tentacle latched onto his other nipple. They pulled in time with each other, a slow, steady suction. The sort of pace, he feared, that could last for hours.

He met the demon’s eyes and suddenly knew what was coming next.

Even the dread certainty couldn’t keep him from jolting in his bonds at the first slick wet touch against his ass. Another thin tentacle entered his mouth, helped muffle his scream as the larger tip breached his sphincter. The head of the tentacle broadened as it pushed slowly and steadily deeper inside him. The honey liquid eased the tentacle’s passage but the lack of pain didn’t make the foreign intrusion any more bearable. Lavellan squirmed and whimpered, whimpered more as every movement shifted the mass inside him, its pebbled skin stirring every nerve in him.

He didn’t know it was possible to take something so big so quickly. The blunt-tipped tentacle had swollen to the width of his arm and continued to grow. He wasn’t meant to stretch like this, he thought, but he did. It had to be some magical effect—but he lost his train of thought when the tentacle shoved another few inches inside him all at once. His struggle was becoming more and more an intellectual exercise as his body warmed inside and out to the creature’s touch.

He was stretched out, fucked open, vulnerable to the last nerve, and when he tried to scream all that came out was a needy whine. He directed his body to struggle; all he could do was wriggle further onto the intruding tentacle. So much, too much inside him. Not enough. He needed more.

The demon said something in a low, reassuring tone. He couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t care. He hovered dizzy on the edge of orgasm as the tentacle slowly, slowly pushed inside him. Slowly, slowly swelled.

Tears in his eyes, despair turned to frustration. He cried out in dismay when the tentacle began receding. He moaned, a mess of spit and the beast’s slime splattered over his lips. The tentacle in his ass slid and slid away until just the broad-tipped head of it lingered inside him.

And then thrust back in. Lavellan screamed. At last an edge of pain tore through his honey-soaked haze. Out again, in, out, again, long fast strokes hammering into him. Pebbled skin dragged slick inside him.

When he looked down he could see his stomach distending with every punishing thrust. He strained and shuddered in his bonds. At last the tentacle inside him ceased to swell. It was twice as thick around as his arm, but felt thicker still.

He whimpered as the tentacles on his nipples suckled even harder. His nipples hurt now, not the suction but the repetition. His tender flesh wasn’t meant for such prolonged abuse. The lips of the tentacles had spread out to cup around his chest, kneading and massaging into his muscle. All the skin and tissue around his nipples was tingling with the deep, pulling sensation.

Countless tentacles squirmed around him. The ones not holding his limbs in place snaked between his toes, nudged up into the shell of his ears, prodded from one terrifying moment at his nose before leaving him at least to breathe.

And finally, finally—he was crying with need—one broad-headed tentacle slipped around from behind, over his hipbone, and swallowed his aching cock.

He came at the first engulfing kiss of that foreign mouth, his seed lost in the honey nectar slicking the inside of the channel. His moans were muffled by the tentacles in his mouth.

The beast continued suckling at him, and as his spasming subsided Lavellan realized he wasn’t softening. Something in the honey, he thought foggily, before his thoughts were lost in another heaving thrust from the tentacle in his ass, bulging up into his stomach,

His skin was wet and slippery all over, hot sweat mingling with the honey oozing from his mouth, from the tentacles, painted in thick clear streaks along the insides of his thighs. He came again, blinding white heat, spilling again into the wet maw of the tentacle.

As he came down somewhat from the high of orgasm he felt something pressing outside his ass. Something new—no. A swelling of the tentacle already inside him, pushing at his entrance as if any more could fit in him. Even in his lust-driven haze Lavellan felt a last fluttering of fear at the size of the knot nudging up against him.

Lavellan squirmed, which accomplished nothing beyond twisting the tentacle in new and interesting ways inside him. He looked down and saw he was bleeding from shallow cuts along his abdomen and thighs. He hadn’t even felt the scrape of the serrated tentacles.

The tentacle inside him was still. His belly distended with the protruding head. And the knot at its base slowly pushed up through its shaft. Lavellan struggled weakly, arms and legs helplessly entangled by his captor, while the massive knot began breaching him. He felt like he was being ripped in half, and no honey-sweet lubricant could fully numb the pain of this intrusion.

The tentacles slipped from his mouth but all he had the breath for was a quiet whine on the edge of each gasp for air. His chest rose and fell with his shallow panting. The demon was crooning something again. He could scarcely hear beyond the wet filthy sounds suckling on every inch of him and his own rabbit-fast heartbeat echoing in his ears.

The rest of the knot shoved inside him. He came a third time, painfully, with the sudden release of tension. His whole body stretched in a tight, shaking bow. It was impossible to tell whether he had anything left to spill inside the grasping tentacle.

His shuddering contortions slowed into a long, panting moment of stillness. The only movements were the steady suckling on his nipples and the wandering slide of otherwise unoccupied tentacles.

He risked a glance to the side at the demon clad in apostate’s skin. There were horns emerging from her temples now, and her fingers looked more like talons. Behind her, his friends still slumped unconscious beyond the sputtering campfire. With a spark of clarity through his delirium, Lavellan prayed they didn’t wake to see him like this. Bad enough for—for _this_ to happen, but he couldn’t bear it if his friends also had the image burned into their memories.

Let the nightmares be his alone.

The base of the tentacle flared out just outside him, forming a tight seal around his entrance. Lavellan didn’t understand. With the knot inside and the flare outside, the tentacle could no longer thrust into him.

The stillness was a relief. He was so full, he didn’t think he could take any more of the beast’s bruising thrusts.

The tentacle on his cock slipped off with a soft popping sound. The suckers on his nipples ceased pulsing, merely holding on with a steady suction. Lavellan panted for breath and wondered if this was it, if his ordeal was coming to an end—and what that end might mean. Surely nothing good with the desire demon watching over his torment. But, gods, surely this couldn’t continue.

The first hot spurt of liquid was a shock deep in his gut. Lavellan gasped as the tentacle pulsed within him. He could _see_ the pulsing through his belly, could feel it shaking him to the bone. _Something_ releasing inside him, whether it was more of the same clear nectar or some other sort of semen, and each pulse sent a fireball racing through his nerves.

Whatever the liquid was, it had the same seductive warmth as the honey poured down his throat. Lavellan floated adrift on the sea of endorphins.

Another pulse every few seconds. Each burst of liquid seemed as large as the last. Lavellan realized hazily that the flood was not slowing down. With his ass completely plugged and sealed, there was nowhere for the liquid to go. It filled up his bowels and flooded up into his stomach, where it finally found room to expand. Slowly but surely he felt himself swelling. He saw his belly distending. Something in the nectar had to ease his muscles and tendons, had to loosen him up beyond even elven pliability, because surely he wasn’t meant to grow like this.

He was crying, he realized, though he no longer felt pain.

A new tentacle prodded at his lips and he gave no resistance. Almost too wide for his narrow jaws, the tentacle forced itself into his honey-slick mouth. The fleshy tip slipped halfway down his throat. No thrusting, but he choked on the intrusion.

The penetration forced his head back. He could no longer watch his swelling abdomen but he could feel his skin tightening like a drum. His hands clutched desperately at nothing. He was so full and he felt so good. He came yet again, his cock completely untouched, sent dry over the edge by the pulsing heat inside him.

Overwhelmed and shattered, Lavellan drifted from awareness.

~

Solas woke first.

As always when waking in unfamiliar surroundings, he remained still and listened before opening his eyes. Clear against the normal swamp sounds was a strange commotion fifty paces off. He sensed the spiritual presence of an abomination, possessed by a desire demon and twisted into a strange configuration of lust. He hadn’t sensed that particular flavor of demonic perversion in eons. And then a creature, twisted from the depths of the swamp itself—

And the Herald, caught in the middle of it.

Solas opened his eyes and spent another moment taking in the strange, moonlit scene before him. Lavellan was caught and spread in the myriad limbs of a creature Solas had not seen even in Fade-memories for hundreds of years. He’d assumed they’d gone extinct, but he well recalled this living tool of torment and entertainment. The ancients used to watch their slaves so pinioned.

As he now watched Lavellan. The young Herald was unconscious, his body slack and unresisting as the thick, dark-scaled tentacle pistoned in and out of his throat. The thicker limb up his ass was motionless, but every few moments Lavellan jolted and trembled. His belly protruded far past the natural limits of his lean body, and his skin gleamed wet in the moonlight.

Solas stood quietly, though he didn’t fear the demon would hear him. It was so caught up in the display, so satiated with the energy it was siphoning from Lavellan that it couldn’t possibly hear him.

He saw Cassandra start to stir from her position on Varric’s shoulder. With a gentle spiritual push and a flick of his fingers, he assured their continued slumber for another hour or two. There was nothing they could do to help that Solas could not do alone, and for all his kindness Lavellan was fatally proud. Solas felt he wouldn’t appreciate being seen in such a state by Cassandra or Varric.

Likely he wouldn’t want Solas to see him like this either, but that couldn’t be helped.

His staff was nowhere to be seen; no matter, he didn’t need it. He cast a sleep spell on the creature, which froze suddenly from its pulsing motions and then slumped in a tangle of tentacles to the swampy ground.

The demon cried out, shocked at the abrupt cessation of energy. It had no time to pull itself together before Solas brought down a veilstrike. A quick barrier for Lavellan and the creature— just in case—and then a hail of fireballs.

Even glutted on the pleasure siphoned from Lavellan, the demon was no match for Solas’s unfettered power and the forces he could tap when his companions weren’t looking on.

The swamp was nearly silent as he walked to the scene. He heard only the buzzing of gnats and the barely-there hum of magical residue. He felt the Veil warping around this spot of landscape. No one would sleep easy here for generations.

Solas first took hold of the abomination’s mangled corpse. He dragged it by the mostly intact wrist off to the edge of the land and let it sink into the mire. Only then did he turn to the young elf still caught in the slumbering monster’s embrace.

So very young, still. Solas thought the advisors forgot that sometimes. Then again, they all seemed children in his eyes.

Lavellan was a wreck. His tan skin had gone pale and ashen with shock. His belly was grotesquely rounded and full of seed—Solas couldn’t help his lingering gaze on the swell of tight skin. His cock was nearly red with overuse and he was covered in a patchwork of shallow scrapes and perfectly round bruises mapping out the lines of his lean body. He was drenched in sweat and a thicker, pearlescent liquid. A tiny droplet of white clung to the tip of each puffy nipple. The tentacle had slipped out from his mouth and his jaw hung slack.

Solas carried the guilt of millennia already; what was one drop more, for so savoring this inspection?

The mark on Lavellan’s hand pulsed faintly. Solas thought, perhaps selfishly, that the anchor gave him a better claim to the boy than Dirthamen’s sigils etched blue on his face.

Enough musing. He had to extricate Lavellan sooner or later. The binding tentacles had slipped from his limbs, but he was still speared on the massive tentacle inside him. If what Solas remembered of the creatures was correct, it would have knotted Lavellan, and he would need magic to pull it out.

Solas repeated the spell he’d used on Cassandra and Varric, sending Lavellan into a steadier sleep, then got to work.

~

Lavellan woke to a cool, wet caress along his cheek.

He flinched back, eyes wide, and was stunned to find himself sitting against a tree stump, unfettered by snaking limbs. Yet more stunned to see Solas kneeling beside him, a damp cloth in his hand and an indecipherable stillness to his expression.

Beginning to breathe again, Lavellan looked down at himself. He was still nearly naked. The rags of one sleeve clung to his right arm, and his tight trousers were mostly intact beneath the knee. His boots were fine. Stained, filthy, but they’d serve.

His belly was flat again. There was no outward sign of his—swelling—and he’d have thought he’d imagined it were it not for the tender ache of every muscle in his abdomen. A deep raw soreness through the core of him. The ebb and flow of nausea. 

Solas was waiting for him to say something, he realized. It was a cruel task, to expect articulation when all he wanted was to sleep again. To escape. He found himself floundering somewhere beyond humiliation.

“What happened?” he rasped eventually. It was, perhaps, the safest question.

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Solas. He reached slowly, and when Lavellan only flinched a bit he resumed wiping the cool cloth along Lavellan’s face. His touch was gentle but certain. “We were ambushed and knocked unconscious by the abomination and its cohort. When I woke, I found you slumped on the ground with the abomination standing over you. I killed her, then started cleaning you up.”

Lavellan closed his eyes a moment and gave a shaky sigh. So Solas _hadn’t_ seen him in the creature’s grasp. The demon must have banished the creature before Solas woke, and Solas hadn’t seen him—filled. A small comfort.

“The others are still sleeping. When I saw your condition I pushed them to sleep a little longer. I’ll wake them when you’re ready.”

Lavellan nodded. Ready. He’d have to be ready. He was the chosen avatar of a prophet he’d never prayed to, and he couldn’t show weakness. Not to the people, not to the Chantry, and certainly not to the Inquisition. No matter how amiable his companions seemed, they weren’t _friends_. He couldn’t show weakness. There were no tears prickling in his eyes.

“You can tell me what happened now, or wait until later,” said Solas. “Or never, but I think it might be good to tell. I’ve seen many strange things in the Fade, likely far stranger than what’s befallen you.”

The kindness in his voice nearly pushed Lavellan to open tears, and he shook with a sudden chill. “Later,” he whispered. When they were in Haven. When there were four walls between them and the world. When he’d first had a chance to curl up alone and sob through the night.

Solas pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then resumed cleaning the honey from his lips.


End file.
